3:27 a.m.: Awakened by my cellmate’s toilet flushing, I lie in bed and contemplate getting up to watch television. Instead, I reach for my tablet and play one of the 24 games I have downloaded. I play my favorite one, Flat Jewels, which is a generic version of Bejeweled, a game where you match different colored shapes for points.
4:30 a.m.: An hour has passed, and it’s now closer to count time than I thought. I could try to get some sleep, but my mind is racing about what I want to get done today. On Sundays I usually draw up a lesson plan for a Monday morning grief group I co-facilitate, do laundry, and put anything I haven’t hand-washed in the laundry cart.
5:46 a.m.: I sit up in bed when I hear the corrections officer doing rounds, opening the pie slots in all the cell doors like a farmer preparing the food troughs for the livestock. Chow halls were discontinued after COVID-19. Now, food carts are brought to the units and the population is fed in-cell. But we get to spend more time outside of our cells now that we don’t have to wait for individual units to get done eating.
6:10 a.m.: The morning alarm clock sounds and an officer yells, “OK, count time! Count time, be seen, get up!” Unlike other people, I’m not annoyed, but I still let out my normal grunts and groans as I sit up to be seen, wave and lay back down. My cellmate gets up to do his thing while our puppy runs around our little space. We are dog handlers and the puppy, Missy, an 11-month-old Shepherd, is being trained to be a service dog for veterans.
6:55 a.m.: Count clears and our door opens. Missy is ready to dart out, but a sharp “No!” stops her briefly. My cellmate takes her out to go potty and walks with her to the pill line. I stretch and get up to retrieve the milk cartons set out. Sunday’s breakfast tray consists of cold grits, two hard-boiled eggs and two bread slices that are hard like toast. On the side, I have two melted and leaking packs of margarine, a coffee packet, two sugar packets, and packets of salt and pepper.
7:10 a.m.: I give the eggs to our neighbor. But I also pass over the rest of the meal. The film over the grits ruins my appetite. I settle for frosted shredded-wheat cereal I purchased from the commissary for just such an occasion. It’s not good for my blood sugar, but my choices are limited.
Once we finish eating, trays get collected, and the cell doors open shortly after for dayroom and phone access. I wait for my cellmate to leave and thank God for letting me live to see another day. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and I’m ready to get my day started. I made a cake the night before, and it has settled. I cut it into slices and offer some to a few guys I catch passing by my cell. These guys have tasted my desserts before. Some guys give me the mini cakes and cupcakes they get for breakfast because they know I mix them with bananas and canned fruit to make my desserts.
8:20 a.m.: After the cleanup, I get to go outside and do some training with Missy. The unit has a large yard out front where all the dogs get to poop and exercise. After training’s done, they get to run around together. I like to go out in the morning alone most times, since Missy is less distracted. I walk her and practice commands that are critical for service dogs to know, like “heel” and “side.”
9:10 a.m.: Now it’s playtime. This is when prison fades into the background and I feel most human. Ball in hand, my arm goes up and Missy stands, eager to chase it, her head pointing back and forth. I throw the ball and off she goes, speeding after it like a rocket. Me, the dog, outside — this is the closest thing to freedom for a lifer like me.
9:55 a.m.: We end play time. Back in the cell, I give her water, wash my hands and start preparing lunch. The prison usually serves country fried steak for Sunday lunch and chef’s salad for dinner, but the meals were switched today because we’re observing a Muslim holiday. I’m making mini pizzas instead. The ingredients are: hamburger rolls, my own pizza sauce, shredded jalapeño cheese and cheese-filled summer sausage — both from a sale we just had — and spicy summer sausage. Meat lover’s style.
10:15 a.m.: Dayroom time is terminated, which means everyone has to return to their cells and lock in — except for block workers, of course. This doesn’t impact me as I’m already in my cell, getting a lesson plan together while the mini pizzas cook.
11 a.m.: Here come the meal carts. Some workers hand out fruit first, followed by others who bring the trays. The chef’s salad is a bed of lettuce on two whole wheat soft taco shells, topped with a slice of lunch meat and sprinkled with tasteless shredded orange cheese. On the side, there’s marinated pasta salad, French dressing and a yellowish pudding-like substance. I set aside the lunch meat and cheese to make dinner with them later, rather than eat the country fried steak mystery meat many of us don’t like. Instead, my cellmate and I savor the spicy mini pizzas that I made earlier. They came out great.
11:45 a.m.: Lunchtime is over. Everything gets quiet after the call for count and I feel like my world slows down. There is a lot on my shoulders right now. I’m a certified peer support specialist and I work with several men who have lost loved ones outside. I have been meeting with and trying to console three guys who’ve lost their mothers. One of them is still a child. I sit on my bed and read through my notes.
1 p.m.: I take Missy out for a potty and her second run. Around this time, all the handlers usually take the girls outside. We let them play together and watch them run around. We talk about the progress we’ve had with training and make plans to give them baths later.
2 p.m.: Missy and I break from the pack. I had to come inside because of all the projects I have on my mind. There are a couple of in-house essay contests I want to submit to; one is about helping a family member impacted by trauma and the other is a creative writing piece on “My Door,” sponsored by the Reentry Services Office. Plus, I still have to fill out my commissary bubble sheet. While my cellmate is out, I wipe down the floor. Missy sheds, so it’s important to clean up after her.
3:10 p.m.: There’s only about 30 to 40 minutes before everyone has to go back inside. I’m not cooking anything tonight, so I climb up on my bunk to pass the time. I always get the top bunk. That way, I don’t have to be concerned that someone else might be sitting and farting on my bed when I’m away. Plus, it’s more comfortable. There’s more room between the top bunk and the ceiling than between the bottom bunk and the top bunk.
4:15 p.m.: The dinner trays arrive and it’s mystery meat. On my tray, I have country fried steak paired with a cold, gelatinous vegetable-based gravy, mashed potatoes with a condiment cup stuck in it, and two slices of white bread. I set my tray back on the pie slot without taking a bite and have some tuna instead.
5 p.m.: Count time is announced once again — all clear in half an hour. I use this window of time to take a shower, do laundry and wind down for the day.
5:40 p.m.: I spend solitary time in the cell and reflect on the day. I wanted to get some writing done but too much editing spoiled that. Tomorrow is another day, anyway.
8:30 p.m.: Before bed, I thank my God for His grace and mercy and pray for my family and friends to remain safe. Good night, world.